What the Manchester!
by Keiran
Summary: Crowley hadn't heard from Below about the Apocalypse yet, but being paranoid is in his job description. His idea of precautions might be just a little startling for Aziraphale...


Author: Keiran  
Title: What the Manchester!  
Rating: PG  
Genre: Humour, WAFF.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Good Omens_. The following is strictly for entertainment purposes.

Summary: The people Below were silent about the Incident so far, but Crowley decided it's better to be safe than sorry.

xxx.XXX.xxx

It hadn't been long since the world almost ended. Especially when compared with the concepts of eternity, forever, or even six thousand and six years.

It sure felt that way though, at least to Aziraphale. A week after the incident that both the Above and Below buried under mounds of paper, the angel returned from a stroll to his little bookshop, ready to continue cataloguing the Antichrist's idea of a unique book collection. He was happy, both in general as well as angelic terms.

Until he opened the door and faced a jungle.

"Angel, took you forever to get back. Help me out, will you?"

Aziraphale stared. "Crowley?" he asked eventually, tugging a leaf to the side. "Is that you?" The sound of a piece technology stopping being a piece of technology and becoming junk filled the room.

"Ah, now all is good."

"Crowley! Was that my computer?"

"Perfect." The cheap plastic PC was replaced with a lush plant, greener than a rainforest at its best.

"Would you mind explaining to me just why there is this… vegetation on my table?" Aziraphale approved of plants, in the same way a fanatic fast-food lover approved of cows. The bovines were important stage of the hamburger production, even if they were only involved as the inspiration, but their position was easily understood. However, people rarely felt that they were important enough to warrant taking an interest in their whereabouts and treatment. "And why- Crowley, what is this bed doing in here?"

"You don't exactly have a flat and I like to sleep. I'll move it, as soon as the buggers upstairs finally relent and leave."

The angel manage to stare, incredulously. "What are you doing, Crowley," he hissed at last, trying his best to remain calm. Think of the books, he reminded himself. Getting worked up wouldn't do them a world of good. The demon must have a logical explanation. He'd better.

Said demon looked at him, removed the sunglasses, as if to emphasise the occasion, and blinked. "I'm moving in, of course."

"I'm sorry, dear. Something seems to be wrong with my hearing today. Would you care to repeat what you just said?"

"Look, it's quite simple, really," Crowley explained in his best reasonable voice. "My people aren't exactly happy about the Armageddon not happening, it's Hell after all, and tension is running high and not everyone feels like making an effort most of the time. Since I was around, guess who's getting blamed. I figured I need to lie low for a while, away from any electronic equipment, so I thought, 'hmm, who's the most technologically impaired person I know?' and voila!"

Aziraphale felt obliged to point out that he owned a computer and was, in fact, depending on it when it came to filing his tax forms. Crowley rolled his eyes and reminded the angel that one, he didn't own a computer anymore two, taxes weren't due until March and three, he was a supernatural being, which, as far as Crowley knew and knew it he did, wasn't taxed. The demon was then treated to a rather interesting spectacle of the angel sizzling.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Aziraphale," he said approvingly. The angel glowered at him.

"My dear, could you please explain just why you expect the forces of Hell itself – assuming for a second that they are indeed bent on your hide – will be deterred by the lack of electronic equipment?"

"Bureaucracy, of course. If they cannot contact me through the appropriate channels, it'll all die down, sooner all later. Ingenious, really. One of my better ideas, bureaucracy," he finished proudly.

"Which still doesn't explain why are you here."

"Aziraphale. Do I need to spell it out for you? You are the only angel I know who wouldn't go mediaeval on me." That, and Aziraphale was pretty much the only angel he actually knew. The rest of them were above mingling with the below folk.

"That has something to do with your _bed_ in the back of my shop why?" Crowley sighed. And to think people were right to assume that Aziraphale was intelligent…

"Angel, no demon would ever willingly enter a holy place, especially not with a resident angel in position." Waving a hand in the direction of Bibles and various other religious texts, which managed to escape Adam's mending touch, Crowley grinned. "Flawless plan. I'm rather amazed myself."

Meanwhile, Aziraphale considered the "no demon" in conjunction with "ever" statement and was just about ready to lecture his arch-enemy/best friend about the semantics, as well as disprove the holy place theory, when Crowley resorted to desperate and frankly astonishing methods.

"Please, Aziraphale," he said quietly, his expression downcast. The angel acquiesced reflexively and spent the next minute blinking in surprise.

"Thanks!" Crowley beamed. Of course, he wasn't going to take no for an answer, but it was nice to get his way the right way.

Which, had he paused to consider it, should have disturbed him greatly.

"I still think you are being quite ridiculous," Aziraphale said, once he managed to wrestle the immediate reality (and a demon casually moving into his beloved shop was a tough concept to wrestle too), shooting a very pointed look at Crowley. You could pierce a cupcake with that look, if said snake hadn't fried it with the force of his glare first.

"What is it about the concept of hellish retribution that you do not understand?"

"Surely they wouldn't bother."

"Oh yes, I mean I'm only being blamed for ruining the battle they've all been looking forward to for the past six bloody millennia. Surely they will be compassionate and understanding."

"I understand your agitation," and he really did. As much as it pained him to admit it, Heaven was equally bent on retribution. He had visited Gomorrah after. "But surely this is a bit too much."

"You know, if you actually believed what you've just said, I might have felt reassured."

"Of course I believe what I'm saying," said Aziraphale, his voice dripping with uncertainty.

"Whatever." The demon shrugged and busied himself with rearranging the plants. The angel stared at him, trying to gather his wits back.

Alright, so he just went against pretty much everything that was supposed to be his nature (just how many angels have shacked up with demons, exactly?). He usually paid more attention to what he put in his morning cocoa.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his face, and looked around. Well, so much for resistance. He might as well make himself useful. Miracling a sprinkler into existence, he carefully started watering the nearest plant. He'd have to figure out how to protect his books from their newest flatmates.

He moved from the first plant to the next and frowned. Something about them bothered him. It was downright silly, of course. Granted, plants were alive, but there was no reason for them to emanate with… fear?

"Good grief," Aziraphale sighed. The Apocalypse, a demon moving in and now greenery with agitation problems. "They're scared, the poor dears," he muttered nevertheless, picking up a soft cloth. "No need to be afraid, I assure you, you are quite safe now." His horrified fascination multiplied tenfold, however, as he continued his chores. The plants weren't just scared, they were terrified. Had they been human, they'd be high up on a ledge above a crowded street, or running down a crowded mall, blazing gun in their hands.

"Now, now. I cannot imagine what could possibly frighten you like that," the angel kept muttering. "Such exquisite plants. I wonder where did Crowley manage to acquire you?"

"Aziraphale!"

"Speak of the devil."

"What the He- Manchester are you doing?" The demon stalked over, took the sprinkler out of the angel's hands and leaned over the ficus. "Do not listen to him, friend," he muttered darkly, delivering a liberal amount of water to the plant. "You just concentrate on growing. And make no mistake, that had better be quality growing, or else." The menace in his voice would have sent a Rottweiler cowering.

"Crowley, you're scaring it!"

"That's the idea, angel."

Aziraphale watched, unmoving, as the demon snaked from plant to plant, speaking to each one. A whoosh of air escaped his lips, as he sat on the wide, comfortable bed heavily and pressed his palms against his face.

He was, for a lack of a better word, screwed.

**END.**


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